Dungeons and Dragons: A Tale of Titans Amongst Men
by Foamsatmouth
Summary: Across the width and breath of Aber-Toril there exists individuals of extraordinary strength, willpower, and courage. These beings are the ones who shape history, the ones who change whole countries, who change the fate of every soul they touch. This story pertains to but a few of them as they band together to fight a threat that has more at stake than any of them realize.
1. The Hunter

Ah, Luskan. The illustrious City of Sails, one of the largest trading ports on the Sword Coast. Its grand walls stretched the entirety of the city, housing inside the thousands of dutiful and loyal citizens, each of which would go about their day joyfully. Settled at the mouth of the river Mirar, westernly neighbor of the great dwarven city of Mirabar, Luskan was a pinnacle of civilization. Hundreds of ships adorned its hearty harbor, a veritable myriad of flags denoting various trading companies scattered throughout the Sword Coast. Its noble High Captains, leaders of different associations within the city, were truly men of awe and power. They were loved and respected throughout the city as its saviors and protectors, having roused their garrisons on many occasions to defend for all sorts of ne'er-do-wells, from goblinkin to bandits to pirates. Truly, never has civilization seen such a monument of-

Ah, who are we kidding? Luskan is a slime-infested, rat-filled cesspool of a city.

Everyone within a thousand leagues knows it too.

Once upon a time, itreally _had_ been a great city. A coastal power to be reckoned with made more so by the Arcane Brotherhood, whose alliances with the High Captains kept the city a remarkable place on the map. Just south of the Spine of the World, it was the perfect place for trading rarities that came from the northern Ten-Towns, the quality craftsmanship that came east from Mirabar, and hardy adventurers-for-hire from Neverwinter in the south.

Of course, that was _before_ the city was overrun by ambitious pirates. _Then_ the pirates would bow their knee to Bregan D'aerthe, a band of outcast drow from the city of Menzoberranzan in the Underdark.

Needless to say, Luskan was really _was_ a cesspool in this day and age. It was run by pirates who were run by drow. Gangs roamed the streets, harassing and robbing anyone not under the protection of one of the High Captains' Ship (Ship being the title of their respective factions), goblinkin and were-rats constantly warred in the warrens and sewers beneath the city, and the undead dwelled aboveground, unopposed, in the ruins of ancient Illusk on which Luskan had been founded. Thousands of people entered and exited the city on a daily basis, all paying tolls to enter and peddle their wares. The little coin they scraped together to pay their dues lined the coffers of the High Captains, or at least the pockets of the bribed guards. Tis a sad thing, really, when the guards are little better than glorified thugs that drink more than regular tavern-goers do.

Though it _is_ a tad reasonable to say that getting drunk on a nightly basis is an acceptable thing to do when orcs, humans, gnolls, dwarves, goblins, halflings, kobolds, elves, and drow all roam the streets at any hour, armed to the teeth and ready to kill. Living there was harsh and it was easy to get lost in the city.

Which is precisely why he had come here.

* * *

 _I hate this place._ He thought to himself as he viewed the snow covered city from a hillock a quarter of a league out. His gaze wandered across the sparsely guarded walls, the pathetic excuses of guardsmen huddled around weak fires, munching on what were most likely ill-gotten haunches of meat. They laughed and guffawed loudly enough for the sound to carry out this far, though he could not make out the words to their jesting. He watched one guard toss a barely eaten leg of lamb over the parapets. As soon as the meat hit the ground, dozens of people jumped on it. The homeless, the wretched, the lepers, the diseased, the urchins, all of them starving to death in the freezing weather outside the city where they were forced to dwell. The guard, still laughing, proceeded to vent his spleen on the people below, much to the others amusement.

Not for the first time, he wished he had his old bow. An arrow to the groin would ensure the guard wouldn't take his duties, or other people, lightly ever again. It's not like anyone would arrest him anyways. All but the higher ups of the Ships were terrified of him.

He rose up from his crouch amidst the higher branches of the old oak tree he was resting in and began his ascent downwards. His leather armour creaked as he slipped from snow-laden bough to bough. As much as he hated the city, he did need supplies. But he would be taking an alternate route in, away from the slums.

As he dropped to the ground with a snowy crunch, he cast his eyes about. He seriously doubted anyone but a drow could sneak up on him, but it never hurt to be cautious. Finding nothing, he headed off towards the front gates, but at an angle. What he sought was west of the gates, down a little beaten path and filled with all sorts of briars and shrubbery. An hour passed and he reached his destination. As he expected, there were no other people about. The wretched ones outside the walls would not venture this far from the gate. There were things living in this area that they wanted no part of.

It took some minutes of cutting through bushes, but he found and followed the path. It spiraled down a small cliff face a little ways before ending at a small plateau. The clearing itself it unremarkable, other than the miniature river of sewage that ran from the iron gated hole in the wall. The sewage followed a small path, etched into the rock from decades of flowing, off the small cliff and into the ocean. Not the most sanitary of things, considering how much the city depended on the ocean.

He approached the iron gate and compared the door to the frame it was set in. It had new hinges and a new lock and the iron was still fairly clean. It hadn't been there for more than a few tendays at best.

It was locked, of course, so he pressed his face against the icy bars. He opened his mouth partially, his razor sharp teeth set together, as if he were smiling, and used his tongue to push his breath through the minute gaps in his teeth. The resulting sound was very much like the squeaking of vermin and when a certain series of sounds were produced in a very specific order, it acted as a signal.

After many heartbeats, he began to worry. Never in all the years he had visited this accursed town did the signal fail. He sighed and turned to head for the front gate when a very faint shuffle echoed from beyond the gate. He paused and listened.

A tentative squeak, barely audible, echoed out from the darkness.

He turned back to the gate, and squeaked out the signal that meant _all clear_. After a few more agonizing heartbeats (and more than a little shivering in the cold), he saw a small human boy step out of the dark. The kid couldn't have been in his tenth winter and he was badly dressed for such weather. Filthy beyond belief, his small eyes darted back and forth between the outside and the stranger at the gate in front of him as he twiddled the key in his hands.

"W-what's the password?" The boy stammered, his voice as squeaky as the vermin they had been mimicking.

On the outside of the gate, he paused and rubbed his chin in thought. Forcing his memory to stretch back to his last visit, some months prior, he came upon something that sounded right. Staring at the boy, he recited the phrase in a low whisper as to not frighten the child.

"The Dead Rats know all, see all, grasp all. One day, the Dead Rats will own all as well."

The boy shook his head. "Sorry, we don't use that password anymore."

The man outside the gate frowned. "How about a haunch of meat and a bag of coins, lad? That sound like a fair trade to get in?"

The boy licked his lips. "Prove you have it first, ser."

Chuckling, the man reached back into his pack and pulled out a nice and fat leg of venison and held it up for the child to see. Clearly drooling from hunger, the boy almost didn't notice the man also hold up a bag that clinked with the sound of coin.

The boy spent a long moment looking from the meat to the man. Eventually, his hunger won and he opened the gate. The man chuckled as the boy snatched the meat from him and immediately began ripping whole gobbets off.

"Here now lad, don't make yerself sick." The man chided him gently, holding out his pouch of water. "Take some sips. I know yer starving, but you can't guard the gate if yer heaving from an overripe belly."

The boy nodded and took the pouch from him. A few swigs later, he returned it and looked down shamefully. "I apologize, ser Hunter. I'm not supposed to let anyone in anymore unless theys a Dead Rat."

The man known as Hunter raised his eyebrow at the boy. "And why is that, lad?"

"Them drow, ser…they dun kilt big boss Ross and Miss Cela, along with most of the guild." The boy sniffled. "Wots left of us…we're just trying to live now."

"I thought the Dead Rats payed a tithe to the drow so that they would be left alone?"

"We did, ser…but the drow wanted more than wot we had. Big boss Ross and Miss Cela told 'em to shove off…so the drow came out of holes we didn't even know where there and they started killing everyone."

The man frowned. "How many of you are left?"

The boys' face scrunched up and he held out both hands. "This many, ser. Well, 'tis that many names. I don't know me numbers."

Hunter spoke slowly. "Ten? Out of over three hundred members, the Dead Rats are down to _ten_?"

"Yes ser."

Hunter shook his head and sighed. This was going to be a long day, he just knew it.

While he had been never been a member of the sewer gang known as the Dead Rats, he had most certainly been amongst them more than a few times over the years. He had always had a relatively friendly relationship with the variously raced gang. The fact that were-rat lycanthropes were commonplace within the guild was the underlying factor in the friendship.

Afterall, as a shifter, he understood them fairly well.

He ran a hand through his shaggy hair and grimaced. No doubt his route was through drow turf now and _that_ particular group of people he hadn't always gotten along with. Especially not since he started a bar fight with that one eyed bald drow with the funny hat.

Hunter opened the pouch in one hand and dug around in a pocket with the other. He pulled up another handful of coins and dropped them in the little bag. The boys' eyes popped open with surprise when the shifter tossed him the heavier pouch.

"Take it, lad." He said. "Keep yer lot fed and warm for the winter."

"Thank you, ser! Tymora bless you!" The boy shouted in joy before taking off into the sewers.

Hunter focused solely on his hearing, listening to the boy run off far into the distant tunnels before he turned and started down tunnel that led the other way. His eyes shifted a little bit, allowing him to see far better than a human would. That was the beauty of weaker darkvision; he could see better than a human in these conditions, but his eyes were never sensitive to light. A perk to being a bestial being.

"That was awfully kind of you, _Hunter_." A voice whispered from the dark.

The shifter froze, his nostrils flaring. A subtle hint of death, poison, and rothe-hide leather. _Drow_.

"I've known the Dead Rat gang for years, dark elf. I had good friends in there." He closed his eyes and focused on his sense of smell and sound. He would never been able to see the dark elf in such light, but if he was lucky his other senses could make up for it.

A mockingly soft laughter filled the air. "Come for revenge?"

Hunter shook his head immediately. "No. It would be beyond foolish for me to try it, especially in such a place as this."

Again with the laughter. "Not as dull as the other lackwits above ground, I see. So tell me, shifter, why do you pass through our sewers?"

"I'm just heading into town. I don't like using the front gates."

Mockingly, the voice said, "Aww, afraid someone is going to call you out for being _green?_ "

Hunter rolled his eyes. "No. I don't like the _living_ rats that dwell underfoot at the gate."

The voice paused in thought and the shifter could feel that the drow speaking to him had shrugged. "Fair enough, beast man. Now tell me, why should I let you through our territory?"

The shifter shrugged. "I never said you _should_. But I'm willing to pay you to let me through."

The voice spoke directly into his right ear now. "Oh? What makes you think I can't just kill you and _take_ your money?"

His eyes still closed, Hunter grinned toothily in the dark. "You might kill me, drow, but you will remember what I do to you for _centuries_."

A long quiet moment occurred before the sound of hearty laughter filled the sewer air. If he had elven vision, he would have found the drow holding his aching ribs as he leaned against the grimy wall of the tunnel.

Many heartbeats passed before the drow settled down and spoke again. "A very interesting thought, Hunter. Fortunately for you, our leader seems to find you amusing enough for us to be ordered to not kill you on sight. So, just this once, I'll let you pass untouched. Next time, however, I _will_ require a toll."

Hunter nodded and opened his eyes. He didn't see the drow, of course. "I'd say you were a generous soul, be we both know your hearts' as dark as the skin of yer goddess."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, shifter." The voice snorted. "Now be on your way. I have rats to watch."

Hunter nodded once more and continued on his way. He wasn't bothered again during his trek.

* * *

The shifter stood shivering in the cold in the heart of the city. It was late and he needed to rest. He mulled over his options for sleeping arrangements. He could probably find shelter in the slums, but he'd have to keep an eye open all night. There _might_ be lodgings somewhere in the Mirabar district, but he doubted that. The place was always packed with dwarves, for good reasons. Perhaps someplace out towards the Piers?

He thought a moment before a smile sprouted on his face. "The Cutlass!"

And with that, the shifter turned about and headed down a dark street. A few fires flickered here and there, warding some of the luckier homeless from the prevalent cold. The snow crunched underfoot as he made his way down, alert as ever. Luskan wasn't exactly safe, even if most of the people were afraid of you.

He smiled at that thought. The common folk feared him all because of a slight misunderstanding involving the deaths of some giantkin a few years back. They thought he killed them all, when all he did was kill two of them. The one who had dispatched the others laid all credit to Hunter, much to the shifters chagrin. He didn't like taking other mans' boasting rights. Still, it had served a purpose. Common folk stopped bothering him, though gangs and Ship mates started targeting him. After killing a few dozen of those, they finally got the message.

Leave the shifter alone, or die.

It was all fine and dandy for a while. He had his space and they got to live. Everything was going so swell until the sahuagin raid.

It was a brief affair, really. A few hundred of the monstrous shark men from the sea had surged from the ocean with the intent of killing everyone and everything. Hunter was actually out on the docks looking to purchase some fish for his supper when they attacked. It was probably one of the only times he had ever been surprised in his life and it almost got him killed when a trio of the water dwellers shot out the ocean and onto the dock near him. He had nearly taken a bident to the chest, only managing to dodge because he tripped backwards over the cowering salesmen behind him. The ensuing brawl with the sea dwellers taught him something.

He most certainly could _not_ over power these creatures. They were simply too strong.

So instead, he settled for moving _faster_ than them. It didn't take long to gut them after that, though the arrival of more forced him to retreat to the streets. He had held the line there, back to back with gang members and Ship mates, until friends of his arrived. It wasn't much of a fight after that. Much less so after the shifter had disemboweled and decapitated the sahuagin war chief.

That fight had nearly cost him his life several times, but the rewards outweighed the risk this one time.

He gazed up to the sign above him which read "The Cutlass". Within the shoddy looking structure, he could hear raucous laughter and the sound of tankards clanging together. He smiled to himself.

A warm hearth and a bellyful of food sounded wonderful right now.


	2. The Slave

**_I still don't know how or why I even started this, it just came to me one day. I am, however, enjoying the hell out of writing it. I needed a breather from my other stories and this is working wonders._** ** _I've always loved Dungeons and Dragons. I love fantasy, sci-fi, anime, manga, video games, comics, the whole kit and kaboodle. I'm just a huge nerd._**

 ** _I also noticed there weren't any crossovers of this type, so I had to jump on it. Now for reviews!_**

 ** _Allen Blaster- I hope you enjoy it man, just shoot me a question when ya got one and I'll explain everything. I'm very well versed in D &D lore._**

 ** _KOTG- Thank you very much, but this roller coaster is just starting. Each main character is introduced in their own chapter. If you thought BB sounded bad, wait until you read what else I have planned!_**

 ** _RPGPersona- I actually got my screenname from playing D &D. I had a Barbarian/Druid named Foamsatmouth Forlongperiodsoftime who was terrified of getting lost in forests. He used ironbark armour and weapons and had a drinking-and-speaking-in-gnomish problem. I hope you enjoy this, my friend, from one adventurer to another. As for what Raven is...you are incorrect. _**

**_OMAC001- Negatory, sirrah/mad'am. They won't meet for several chapters. Drow are just sarcastic/hateful bastards at best._**

 ** _Golem XIV- I honestly didn't know the crossovers section wasn't included in the primary story listings, so chances are this story won't get many views. *disappointed sigh* oh well, I'm going to do my best to enjoy writing it anyways. TG you were going through Allen's fav stories lol_**

* * *

It seemed like he did everything he could to make her _absolutely_ miserable. Dragging her across the breath and width of Aber-Toril, through all sorts of fights and wars, dealing with man and monster alike, he seemed to make it his life's _purpose_ to make her absolutely hate him and his very existence.

Which she _did_ do, quite happily.

Oh, how she had cheered when that young hydra broke loose from its confinement and attacked him, tearing his right eye out before someone put it down. Oh, how she had smiled when a tribe of orcs descended on their convoy and slaughtered more than half of it, all of which were providing some valuable service to the man. Oh, how she had shed tears of laughter when his apprentice tried to kill him and assume his mantle.

Of course, he had beaten her quite severely each time. Slaves weren't supposed to be amused, let alone happy.

So here she was, manacled and gagged in the small warehouse he owned, surrounded by dozens of other slaves. Their fetid stench had long since faded from her attention, as did their moaning and whimpering. She supposed her disinterest in them came from having been a slave herself for going on three winters now.

She cast her gaze about the room as her hands mindlessly tugged on the chains betwixt her ankles. They were of a lesser quality than the ones adorning her wrists, so they were more likely to break. Not that they ever had, but perhaps Tymora, the Goddess of Luck, would smile upon her one day.

She looked to the other slaves, all manacled together, their bodies a mass of shivering flesh as they desperately sought out warmth from each other. It might have worked, were there not a gaping hole in the roof. Snowflakes lazily drifted in, carried by a chill wind. The building itself was in rough shape, barely held together by a patchwork charade of hastily erected boards lining the walls inside and out. The only door to the room was heavily barred from the outside, where a single guard was posted with a warm fire under a sheltered overhang close by. There were mounds of straw littering the room, just as filthy as the inhabitants and undoubtedly full of all manner of parasites and vermin. It was a wonder that the rats hadn't started feeding on the decrepit bodies that were forced to dwell in such a place.

She glanced at the hole and snorted in half-hearted amusement. It had been a young fire genasi that had done that, going berserk after a fellow slave had died at the hands of some particularly aroused thugs that their master had recently hired. Their master had killed the men for losing him profit, of course, but the damage was done.

The genasi had surged out of his chains, roaring prayers to Kossuth, the God of Fire. Eerily enough, his rage apparently reached the ears of the primordial being and he granted the fire-kins' prayers. In his fury, he rampaged through the district, killing every slaver he could find. The fires that bellowed from his hands smote down a half dozen men at a time and set buildings ablaze. The smell of charred flesh lingered throughout the building for tendays afterwards, much to the disgust of the other slaves. His anger unabated, he began to assail anything and everything he could find. He screamed his rage to the heavens for the loss of the other slave, a pale skinned, black haired elven girl named Tonimonetti.

In the end, his rage mattered not. He never found the slave master. Instead, he was met by a priestess of Auril, the Goddess of Ice. Even the flames of Kossuth could not sustain the battered, beaten, and starving body of the fire-kin against the dreaded ice magic the priestess had wielded. The genasi died there, his body pierced by dozens of shards of ice that came from the hands of this hateful and cold woman known only by the name of Rouge. His corpse was mounted against a wall out in the open for all slaves to see, a clear message of what would happen if they disobeyed or revolted. The genasi, once known as Isiah, was the first and last slave to rebel in a long time.

Of course, none of that mattered to the shackled young woman sitting in the warehouse. She had long since figured out that the only escape was death. After she had been betrayed and enslaved, it had taken her some time to come to this realization. It had taken a longer time, but she had accepted it. The Lady of Loss would guide her soul when the time came, she knew this.

That line of thinking always led the girl to an amusing thought. She could, theoretically, turn all of these slaves into Sharrans, worshipers of Shar, the Lady of Loss. It would be reasonable, since all they had to do was accept their fate as the dirt that society was built upon, cast out and forsake by the rest of society. She herself knew her value to the civilized world was even lower than that, considering her heritage.

But as was stated a moment ago, none of that mattered. Nothing mattered _at all_ to her. Nothing ever did since she accepted her fate. Even living to see another day didn't matter to her, really. Death would be a freedom from bi-daily beatings, starvation, and verbal abuse.

The sound of crying drew her attention from her musings. She searched the congregation of slaves and found a child, no more than five winters, sobbing in arms of a woman. The gagged girl struggled to her feet and shuffled over towards them. The sound of her thicker-than-average chains awoke many. The other slaves drew away from her fearfully as she trudged towards the child.

She may have been bound and gagged, but she was still a _tiefling_ , afterall. And _nobody_ trusted demon-kin.

The child, however, didn't notice her approach until she reached out and drew it away from the woman. The tiefling girl knew the woman had finally died of hypothermia, for she had been ill for days. Most of the people there were very sick from the cold, their ragged clothes barely covering their filthy and malnourished bodies.

The child wept in her arms as she patted it on the head. Its hair was so filthy, matted and gnarled with knots, that she was slightly concerned with getting her hand stuck. Were she able to speak, she would have consoled the child and instructed it to embrace its loss.

After some time the sobbing died away as the child passed out from exhaustion. Looking around, the tiefling spotted an older dwarf with a ragged beard and balding head. He was the closest thing she had to a companion during her enslavement and while she was grateful he didn't shun her as the others did, she knew one day he would be gone too.

She nodded towards the child and he nodded back as he pulled himself up from the cold floor. He trudged over to her and took the child into his embrace. Wordlessly he returned to his spot and wrapped his arms around his charge.

The door opened and every conscious slave in the room instantly cringed. At this hour, this could only mean that someone was leaving.

And not in a good way.

The tiefling girl turned and faced the men approaching. Of all the slaves, she was the only one who could do this and get away with it.

"What have we here?" A deep and foreboding voice echoed throughout the room. "I seem to have lost another piece of property. I am… _disappointed_."

The tiefling girl glared at the speaker, the slave master. He was a tall man with only one eye, a hard face, and short white hair. It was hard to tell if he had seen forty or sixty winters, for even though he looked aged he was quite active. An eyepatch with glistening onyx jewels in the shape of an upright black right hand, thumb and fingers together, adorned his missing eye. All who saw him knew he was one of Bane's followers, utterly devoted to the God of Tyranny, and he did not shy from it. The man was outfitted in black iron armor and blackened leather from the neck down. It was unremarkable in appearance, for the man did not dwell on frivolous things such as impressing people. He wanted functional and that was what he got. The only other unusual piece of his attire was the gauntlet on his right hand, which was of far higher quality than anything else he wore. The blackened adamantine glove was his symbol of his clergy and he could cast spells as easily as he crushed skulls with it.

She didn't see the backhand coming, but she certainly felt it before she struck the floor. Her head cracked against the floor hard, gashing her temple on the old and frozen wood. Reeling, she struggled to sit up.

"I might not be allowed to _kill_ you, child, but I will _beat_ you for each time you fail to inform my guards that I'm going to lose piece of property to something as ridiculous as being cold. As many times as we've had this _talk_ over the years, you should know this by now." He snarled. Beside him, a large man shifted uncomfortably. The tiefling glanced at the man, who had obviously been the one guarding the door. A half ogre, he was far larger than anyone else in the room. Despite this, he was terrified of his employer.

"M-Mr. Slade, I apologize, I-" The large man stammered, his deep voice barely hiding his fear.

"It matters not, Baran." The man known as Slade spat. "I was coming down here to inspect my merchandise anyways. We have a big day tomorrow. I'm expecting to sell _every_ piece I have this time, so give them some damned blankets and build them a fire! I'm not losing _another damned coin because of weather! Do you understand me?!"_

Baran nodded furiously. "Yes sir, Mr. Slade, right away!"

Slade stormed from the room and Baran turned to his companions, roaring. "You heard the boss! Semor, Bill, bring them blankets! Hiiven, start them a fire!"

Semor, a small dark skinned man from the far south city of Calisham, nodded and ran out of the room. His companion Bill, a simple minded but strong man from the hills beyond the city, followed suit. Hiiven, however, frowned and grumbled to himself as he left the room. The hulking, dark haired barbarian disliked taking orders from the half ogre to such an extent that they quarreled often and violently.

But these orders came from his employer, so he was more inclined to follow along. For now, at least.

His face darkening, Baran turned towards the tiefling girl and she knew what was about to happen. She covered her head up as best as she could.

"You damned witch!" He snarled. "You could have told me that one of them died! You _know_ he docks the guards' pay when one of you worthless dung heaps dies! You just cost me a week's stipend!"

His foot connected with her ribcage and sent her crashing across the room. Gasping for breath, the tiefling stared hatefully up at the half ogre before her. He sneered at her and began to lash out with his foot. Considering the bulk of his body, each blow was like being struck by a large horse.

She was sure to have some broken bones and new bruises by the time this was over.

* * *

She wasn't really sure when the beating stopped, nor was she certain when the fire was built. But one thing that she _did_ know was that every part of her _hurt_ when she regained consciousness.

"'ere now lass, don't be moving too much. He got ya good this time." A voice said gruffly from her side. Her left eye cracked open, the right one welded shut from her black eye and crusted with dried/frozen blood. She nodded minutely at him and he gently lifted her head up as he held a small cup of water up to her. He had loosened her vocal restraint as best he could, allowing a small trickle of water to dribble around the cloth and into her parched throat.

The curious thing about this gag was that it was slightly magical in nature. The only way for it to be removed was to recite a small cantrip, which would cause it to unknot itself and return to being a regular rag. A ridiculous waste of magic, to be sure, but one had to take certain precautions with people like her. At least, that was the slave masters' line of thought.

As the dwarf lay her head back down, the girl couldn't help but to sigh. Sure, now she wasn't dealing with the cold, but an enormous amount of pain instead. And in the morning, she would be sold for a fair price in the slave markets of Luskan.

"I know what yer thinkin' lass." The dwarf murmured. "I cannit see things endin' well tomorra' either."

She snorted in amusement. The dwarf had _no_ idea what was in store for her.

It had happened every time she had been sold off to some unsuspecting fool for a hefty sum (under the pretense that she was 'an exotic creature sure to _entertain_ you for decades'). She would spend a few days in service of a new master, getting acclimated to their lifestyle and 'returning to a proper state of health as to properly _entertain_ her new master' (as a noble in Waterdeep had once put it), only for someone to break in, kill the buyer, rob his house, and take her back to Slade. She had had dozens of 'masters' over the past couple of years, but she was bound to this damned slaver until her death. All because the one person she had trusted more than anyone in her life had betrayed her for reasons she still couldn't comprehend.

Thankfully, she had never once been raped by any new buyer or even the slave masters' men. A few had tried, yes, but what Slade had done to them would have put the demon lords of the Abyss to shame. This was her life, full of murder, betrayal, torture, and greed. It had been that way for three whole years now.

And she accepted it.

"Oh no…not you too."

The demon-kin raised her head up and looked back to the dwarf. He had his back to her and was cradling something in his arms. She shook her arms slightly and the sound of the chain drew his attention. He turned towards her, the child in his arms.

Only this time, the child neither spoke nor stirred. In fact…it wouldn't do anything like that ever again.

The tiefling let her head drop back onto the floor with a thud. It hurt, but not as much as her heart did. Seeing a child die was always a terrible thing, no matter how many dozens of times she had seen it over the years.

"What am I to do with her?" The dwarf mumbled. "Iffen they see her, they'll beat you again lass. It's a wonder they haven't killed ye, as often as they beat ya."

She tilted her head to the left, then right. Her gaze drifted across the fire towards the largest pile of straw. Sighing to herself, she shook her chains once more. The dwarf looked to her and she nodded in the direction she was looking. He peered across the fire and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Tha' straw? It's full of rats. They'd…" A look of understanding rose on his face. "Ah. I understand…"

He struggled to his feet, his own shackles impeding his movement. After he stood, he carefully walked around the other slaves huddled around the fire and approached the refuse. He kicked the bulk of the straw to the side and set the child down. His heart heavy, the dwarf then kicked all of the straw back over the small body. With any luck, it wouldn't be found for quite some time.

Wordlessly, he made his way back to her side and sat down. His face was troubled and the tiefling could see it clearly in the firelight. Carefully, she reached out and patted his knee. He glanced down at her and sighed.

"Aye lass, I know. That doesn't make it any easier."

She nodded in understanding. It wasn't the first time she had seen it, nor would it be the last.

Such was the life of a slave.


	3. The Golem

_**Hello adventurers! DM Foamy is back with another chapter to this lovely project of mine!**_

 _ **Not gonna lie, this one was tough. Cy's always had the weirdest background out of the original Titans to me, so making him something unique was a bit of a challenge. Still, I managed to do it and-**_

 _ **Eh? What's that? I think Cy has the weirdest background? Ofc I do. BB was made by a serum, Raven's a half demon, Rob's an orphan martial artist, and Star is an alien. Those are pretty cliche compared to psycho-explosion-of-blowing-your-shit-up-and-turning-you-into-a-freaking-cyborg if you ask me. As such, I had to take a good bit of time to think about how I wanted to do this. I honestly wanted to make him an Artificer, but that's from the Eberron campaign setting of Dungeons and Dragons and I honestly couldn't find a plausible means to displace him into this setting. So I settled for the next best thing.**_

 _ **Now for reviews! (all four of them lol)**_

 _ **Allen Blaster- Now Al, I know I gave you the info in a PM, but I would like you to keep in mind that devils and demons are different in this setting. They are literally two different species that live in to different hellish dimensions. So that means when and if I say devil, I don't mean a demon. :)**_

 _ **Golem XIV- You are half correct about Slade; he IS selling and reselling Raven for money. But the question is...why?**_

 _ **XxPhoniexFlightxX- I'll go ahead and give you a spoiler. Jericho IS in this and yes, he IS a bard! He's part of a three person group of traveling bards called "The Wanderers". I won't tell you who the other two people are, but it isn't hard to figure out lol.**_

 _ **RPGPersona- Nay sir, the dwarf is not. He'll be seen again in a few chapters, but that'll be the last time. I honestly haven't given him a name, but if you want to shoot me one I'll use it. And yes...there are several magical ties between Raven and Slade. None which are pleasant.**_

* * *

The fire roared to life as the bellows belched air into the forge, the sound of crackling filling the air around the man as he heated his latest piece of work. Beneath his armored right foot, a small and strange contraption of his design shifted under his weight, causing a chain reaction to the bellows in which it was connect to. The bellows inflated with air once more and sent their charge into the base of the flame.

Minutes later, the man took his heavy iron tongs and withdrew the hot bar of metal from the forge. He set it upon his anvil and rummaged through his hammer belt, precariously perched at an angle across his armored waist. Grasping his largest hammer, he proceeded to beat the metal.

He started at the tip, relentlessly pounding it with his heavy hammer into a more pointed shape, turning the bar to and fro as he needed. After it was considerably more triangular, he reheated the bar and replaced it on the anvil. For a lengthy bit of time, he beat it down into a flatter bar, reheating it as necessary. As he did so, the width of the bar grew by a quarter or so, which pleased him. Things were going well.

It took him some time, but he made his way down towards the bottom of the bar, where it tapered off into the tang, or handle. He set about heating and beating that down into shape as well. He didn't need much, just a solid piece in which to install the crossguard, hilt, and pommel. For this he used his medium weighted hammer since the tang was smaller and more likely to-

 _SNAP_

The man looked down at the broken piece of iron on the ground. He stared at it. He glared at it. He opened his mouth and spat curses so foul the undead in the slums shivered.

He glared down at the bar upon the anvil, his eyes daring it to further offend him. Despite its non-existent reaction, he roared in anger and threw his hammer across the room, sending it straight through the wall and into the street. Snatching the offensive piece of iron up, he slung it away from him. It bounced about his blacksmithy for a moment, knocking all sorts of tools over. In his fury, he kicked over his anvil, sending it crashing to the ground with a loud clang. The sound settled him, somewhat.

He looked around the room and saw his mess. He had lost his temper with his work again and his shop took the minuscule amount of damage this time instead of his hired hands. Sitting upon the anvil, he placed one metal hand upon his head and rubbed his temple.

Ever since his "accident", he had had a problem readjusting to his life's work. It's not that the work was complicated, for he had done it since he was a child. Blacksmithing was in his blood, the knowledge and talents passed down for ten generations in his family. He himself was what the more educated folk called a prodigy. He had done things with steel and iron that left dwarves and elves scratching their heads in confusion. It wasn't as robust as dwarven work, nor was it beautiful like elven. It was hardy and strong, just what the people of Luskan needed. His steel was common on the market and his work was always high in demand.

Well…that's how things had been before the he almost died.

He and a close friend, a sworn blood brother in fact, had decided to take a trip to Mirabar to stretch their adventuring legs. It had been some time since they had been out seeing the world together and both were restless and ready to explore. So they chose Mirabar as their destination. Nothing bizarre or out of reach, just up the river to the dwarven citadel. Sure, it was a few tendays journey away, but that's what made it fun. Anything could happen on the road, they had figured.

And _anything_ is precisely what happened.

Six days from Luskan, they were set upon by a small band of brigands. The poor fools came at them with such weak steel that his friend actually killed one on accident by hitting the fellows' sword too hard with his mace. The shattered blade slashed deep into the mans' face and he bleed to death, screaming. The remaining thieves opted to retreat instead of keep attacking. A foolish choice, truth be told. Had they pressed a little harder, they might have been able to overwhelm to two young men. Instead, they died one by one as his friend tracked them through the wilderness and picked them off with his long bow.

Anyone who thought they could run from a ranger in the woods was a fool.

They left the corpses to the carrion crows after stripping them of anything valuable. That being said, they didn't get much more than a handful of silver coins off the entire lot, along with a pretty but small ruby. They truly were a sad bunch.

Other than passing a rather curious looking dwarf with two glassteel morning stars strapped across his back, nothing interesting happened on their journey to the dwarven fortress.

The dwarven citadel of Mirabar stands on a knoll on the north banks of the River Mirar, two tendays from Luskan by foot. On the surface, Mirabar is populated with great multitude of squat stone buildings and stone towers. It is arranged in such a way as to provide great efficiency, both to traveling merchants and to its military. Its walls are extremely thick and sloping, a unique design intended for extensive winter combat. Upon being sieged, the dwarves would pour water down the slopes. The frigid air would freeze the water, and provide a surface far too slippery to traverse. The area around the city is riddled with open mines and heaps of slag, the stone refuse that was discarded constantly. Roads lead to its major mines in the Spine of the World Mountains, which yielded a wide range of metals and gemstones. Those are amongst the most guarded part of Mirabarran society, protected by the Axe of Mirabar, the heavily armed and heavily trained army that guarded the city as well.

Neither of the young men had ever been much further inside the citadel than the Hall of All Fires, which was lined by hundreds of working furnaces. It was simply too hot for them after spending a half a fortnight in the wilderness.

Still, wandering around the city and talking to the citizens had proven to be entertaining. Dwarves were proud folk, in a funny way. Pick on them just a little bit about the right things and they got _so_ angry. Three bar fights and two death threats later, the young men had left the city in high spirits with no hard feelings towards their hosts. They only came by to annoy the dwarves and the hardy mountain folk knew this. It wasn't their first trip there, after all.

Unfortunately, they _did_ run into trouble just a day's travel from the citadel. Said trouble came in the form of a trio of lost ogres, who were rather hungry.

Despite the blacksmiths rather sturdy frame, topping off at six and half feet tall and well over two hundred pounds of work hardened muscle, he had been pummeled and crushed beneath the might of the towering giantkin. His friend, smaller and much faster, had managed to evade the hulking brutes long enough to drop one of them with a well-placed arrow to the eye. The death of their comrade only infuriated the ogres even more and their rampage almost flattened the blacksmith into a fine paste. Both of the friends were in dire straits at this point; one was badly injured, the other was quickly becoming exhausted from trying to stay alive.

Tymora must have smiled upon them that day, for rescue arrived shortly. It came in the form of a snorting, squealing, and flamingmass of _laughing_ death, but it still came to their rescue.

The half-dead blacksmith watched as a black bearded dwarf with a pair of morning stars brawled with the ogres, his fiery warpig hopping around the brutes bashing. It gored them with its tusks at every chance as its master cracked his weapons into whatever he could reach. The dwarf was as mad as Cyric himself, for he laughed the entirety of the fight. His _bwahahaha_ 's echoed throughout the area just as loudly as did the ogre's roars.

Before the blacksmith had realized it, his friend had rejoined the fray, furiously striking the back of the knee of one of the ogres. When the giantkin howled in pain and staggered forward, his companion had dropped his mace and shimmied straight up the monsters' back. With a roar of his own, the young man activated the curious enchantment on the odd gauntlets he wore.

The enchantment had sprouted a pair of long claw-like fixtures on the back of each hand, hooking slightly up and over the knuckles on his hand. Though they had the appearance of elongated thorns, they were little more than spikes.

Whatever they were supposed to be, they worked quite well as he plunged foot and a half long spikes deep into the ears of the ogre. The creature only grunted once as it toppled forward. His friend pulled the spikes and tumbled from the back of the creature, rolling into the leg of the remaining one. Luckily enough, the ogre was already very off balance and was sent tumbling backwards. The mad dwarf immediately hopped up onto the monster and struck it mercilessly in the face until it stopped moving.

To this day, the blacksmith could only barely remember his friend and the dwarf loading him upon onto the flaming warpig and taking off for Mirabar at a dead run. He barely remembered falling off the snorting beast twice. He barely remembered arriving at the city.

But he most _certainly_ remembered that the pig had startled a group of human quarry workers so badly that, in their haste to escape the creature, they knocked over a scaffolding that knocked over two more scaffoldings that hit another one that held several tons of stone from a mine entrance a little higher up. This chain reaction dropped said stone directly onto the blacksmith and his impromptu mount.

He never _did_ figure out what happened to the pig or the dwarf. But then again, he was unconscious for everything that happened after that.

And boy, was he ever grateful for that.

When he awoke, two things immediately caught his attention. First, he couldn't see out of his left eye. Second, several of his limbs felt…odd. He had raised his left hand and found it to be armored. It was of a curious looking craftsmanship. It was strangely dwarven, but it had the subtle curving of elven make as well, almost as if the two races had worked together to make the gauntlet. Pushing his curiosity aside, he reached up with his other hand and removed the glove.

Only, it wouldn't come off.

His confusion grew more and more as he realized that this gauntlet reached well past his forearm. In fact, it seemed to cover his _whole_ arm. He sat up and looked at his body in horror. Well over three quarters was now covered in a nearly seamless, silvery blue metal with runes etched deep into it surface.

His screams awoke everyone well within earshot and many that didn't know that they were within earshot of the infirmary.

His friend had been the first one in the room, followed closely by three elves and four dwarves. There was a priest amongst the elves and two amongst the dwarves, all of which rushed past the others towards their screaming patient. It had taken them well over two hours to calm him down enough to explain what happened.

It turned out that, in addition to his previous injuries, the blacksmiths' body had been effectively pulverized by the quarrystone. The vast majority of his bones had been crushed, his muscles left mangled and limp, and his many of his organs had ruptured. The left side of his head was practically caved in. He was, in short, as good as dead.

The Lady of Luck smiled once more upon the blacksmith, however. He was renowned enough in the city (his wares had made their way to the dwarven capital more than a few times) that many of the citizens reacted instantly to the accident. The dwarves tackled the stone instantly, the human set about shoveling shale, and the few elves used their magic to locate the mangled man below the rubble.

In truth none of the holy men present had the power to deal with the sheer volume of damage present on the blacksmith. His limbs were truly beyond useless at this point; they were damaged beyond repair even with the most powerful of their available holy magic. The muscles and nerves could be healed, yes, but his bones were shattered in too many places. It would be borderline impossible to magically reassemble the bones and even _if_ it were to happen he would spend his life in extreme pain due to the minute bone fragments scattered about his muscles.

And that's were things took a turn for the worse, at least to the blacksmith. For, you see, the citizens of Mirabar had done the one thing the young man most certainly did not want to do, even if it cost him his life.

They took him to his father, who lived deep within Mirabar.

The young blacksmith hadn't had a good relationship with his father in a very long time. The parental figure, if he could be called that, was more obsessed with his life's work than anything. It was a wonder the man had even found a wife and sired a child, so much time did he spend on his research. The man was an alchemist and a mage with a penchant for making golems. As strange as that sounded, the truth was that he was absolutely convinced that it was golems that would be best suited to protecting his home. Nobody was quite sure why he thought this, only that when he had arrived at Mirabar decades before that he had the look of a haunted man about him. The only other odd thing about the blacksmiths father was the red robe he always wore. He had asked his father about it once and the man had merely replied "It is a reminder of the horrible things I've seen, things I must protect you from."

With that being said, his father was absolutely distraught when they arrived with his son. He was in a full blown panic within seconds, completely flipping out when he was told about the accident at the quarry. He alternated between screaming at the quarry owner and asking about his sons injuries before the accident. At some point the priests had interrupted his verbal rampage and informed him that his son was on the brink of death and they couldn't keep him alive much longer. It was then and there that he made a decision that would change the very existence of his son.

He used a transmutation circle to turn his own son into a half golem.

From what the blacksmith understood, it was more than a little bizarre of a process that baffled everyone present. As the metal bonded to his flesh, replaced bones, and covered ruptures on his organs, the priests had come inside the circle and continually cast healing magic upon him. It made his organic body meld with the metal in ways that no one could explain. On the outside, several elven and dwarven blacksmiths molded the outer metal (which was liquefied and warm, therefore easy to maneuver) into more refined shapes, producing strong but correctly proportional limbs. The metal would come to encase the bulk of his body, as well as roughly half of his head. Someone had had the mind to place a pure ruby where his left eye had once been.

After the metal work was done, the dwarves had taken it upon themselves to etch into the metal runes of protection. His metallic parts were immune to flame, they were unbreakable, and weighed exactly as much as his living limbs had. Of course, the elves present stepped up their game as well. Upon the ruby eye, they bestowed enchantments of their own. He couldn't be hypnotized, psionics wouldn't be able to control him, and it would shine a light when a simple cantrip was recited.

It was very obvious to many that a god must have had a hand in the blacksmith's survival. But the question was…who? Was it Gond, the god of artifice, craftwork, construction, and smithwork? Or perhaps, since this was a dwarven hold, it was Moradin, the dwarven god of creation, smithing, protection, metalcraft, and stonework? Would a dwarven god feel pity for a human? What about the elven god Corellon Larethian, who held sway over craftsmanship as well? It was a known fact that the blacksmith's wares had reached elven hands and had been used by them. Would this god have saved this human out of respect for his abilities?

No one knew the answer and they never would.

The blacksmith was more confused at that moment (the end of the story they told him) than he had even been before in his life. Why the elves and dwarves had given him all these things was beyond him at the time, but he would later learn that his friend had guilt tripped the _entire damned kingdom_ into helping his injured friend, quite profusely blaming them for having terrible workers and terrible working conditions. He had always known his blood brother was persuasive, but this was ridiculous.

He remembered calling his friend "The craziest damned ball of hair Faerun had ever seen.", to which his companion laughed and said "Well then, metal man, guess that makes you crazier for roaming with me!".

* * *

A small knock on the door roused the blacksmith from his thoughts.

"Come in." He called out gruffly. The door eased open and a street urchin, perhaps ten winters, poked her head in. Behind the child, the smith could see that it was dark out. He had missed another day, it seemed.

"Mista' Blacksmith, ser, I brought your hammer." The child said.

The man nodded. "Good lass. Come inside and warm yourself by the fire."

The girl eagerly entered and presented the tool to the man. The blacksmith took it and set it back in its proper hoop on his belt. The girl sat silently on an upturned bucket as he watched the mostly-metal man set about returning his workshop to normal. It took some time, but he eventually got it back to normal and then sat back down on the anvil with the recovered pieces of his broken sword. He stared wistfully at them, wishing they would magically rejoin so that he could continue working.

"Wot you gonna do with that?" The girl asked.

"I'm not sure now." The smith shrugged. "I broke it, so it's useless as a sword."

"But ser, couldn't you just make a shorter sword?"

The blacksmith raised his only eyebrow at the child, then held up the iron bar for inspection. Yes, he could make a short sword out of this. Or good dirk. A pair of knives. The larger scraps he could turn into arrowheads. There was _always_ a need for more arrowheads.

The metal man grinned. "Good idea. _That_ , Melvin, is why you get five silvers a day."

The girl smiled and took the coins offered. When she was nice and warm, she set off for wherever she bunked at night. The smith returned to his work. He needed to get _something_ done this evening to make up for the loss of a good sword. In the morning he would be headed to the market to sell his finer pieces to traveling adventurers and sellswords, probably even to those in employ of the Ships as well.

He paused in thought. Tomorrow was the day the slavers came through. The crowds would be full of pickpocket's moreso than usual.

Oh well. He was going to have a good day regardless.

* * *

 _ **A/N: That was a pain in the ass to write, tbh. I scrapped it and rewrote it three times before I was satisfied with it.  
**_


End file.
